I'm Still Waiting
by NightingaleLost
Summary: Butters wondered why he did it. Why he was so addicted. Butters' first person P.O.V.


I actually made my sister cry with this. I read it to her, and she started crying. Not like 'oh-god-she's-totally-crying-like-a-freaking-pussy' or anything, but just silent tears barely visible. I totally spazzed out. i mean I was like, "Holy, shit, I'm so sorry, what did I do, what's wrong, oh God, don't cry!" LOLZ. I'm such a freak. But yeah, this is pretty...depressing, I guess? I don't know, I've read worse things than this but apparently this is very sad. Whatever.

**Disclaimer: Are we seriously still doing this? ME NO OWNIE SOUTH PARK!!! There. I said it.**

I was listening to 'Helena' by My Chemical Romance when I thought of writing this. It's what inspired me, actually. And before you say it, yes, alot of people think they're fags and hate them because they suck balls or whatever. I don't give a flying fuck. They have some damn good songs, and if you don't like them, I couldn't care either way. It inspired me and that's all I need. So, now, read and enjoy. Or hate. Either way, just leave me a review. Oh, and yeah, let me make this bold so people actually see this...**THIS IS FROM BUTTERS' POINT OF VIEW!!! LEOPOLD 'BUTTERS' STOTCH IS THE NARRATOR!!!** there. Now you can't say i never told you. It was even in the freaking summary for God's sake.

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You always made it look so easy. Dying, I mean. I think it might have been in the timing, really. Those few seconds where things could go either way. Stepping out into the path of a car going too fast to brake or swerve, taking that last hit of a drug when you know you're at the edge, walking off the edge of a roof just high enough to kill you. But it was easy. So very simple for you.

I remember once, when I was walking along the train tracks next to your house with you. You had invited me over for some reason; I don't really know why. I was shy, not really knowing what to say. You had looked so confident as you kicked the stones at our feet. Then you stepped out onto the tracks, walking straight in the middle, motioning for me to join you. I did. I can't remember how long it took, but soon a loud roar interrupted our silence. A rare train was coming toward us, still a bit far off.

You just stood there, staring it down, a strange smile on your face. I had panicked, trying to pull you away to safety as the great machine came closer, but you stood fast. Unmovable. That grin still on your face. It scared me. It was excited, expectant, waiting, and I realized you _wanted_ it to kill you. It frightened me down to the depths of my soul.

I froze as it bore down on us, but suddenly you pushed me away. I landed on my butt in the snow. Your feverish smile burned itself into my mind, and your words I heard clearly, even over the roar of the train.

"Isn't it beautiful, Butters?"

Then you were gone. Your body had been nothing more than spilled blood on the train tracks, and I think I cried. It always hurt me when you died. I just hated the thought of losing anybody I knew. It was too horrible, even though I knew you would be back the next day.

I think you might have been addicted to death, though. Well, I suppose; I never really asked. But that gleam in your eyes only intensified every year. What was it that attracted you so much? Was it the power you held over your own life? Did you laugh at death? Was it all just a game to you? Sometimes I think it was.

It made me so curious sometimes. I wanted to know what you felt, what ran through your mind, what kept you coming back time after time. I actually stood on the edge of a bridge one day, over the freezing waters of a river. I had known the fall would not kill me; the water would do that. My heart raced at the thought of dying, of leaving and never coming back, and I wondered if _this_ was what addicted you: the feeling of being so alive. I don't know. I was too much of a coward and ran away.

You came over to my house a lot, at night, more so as you got older. Sometimes to talk. 'Just to hang out,' you said. You seemed to like that I actually cared. I don't blame the others for being so apathetic, though. It was the Boy Who Cried Wolf wearing an orange parka. How many times can you die before people stop caring? Somehow, I never did. I guess my heart just wouldn't let me. You liked that.

I was privy to a lot of your deaths this way. I would tag along, because I cared, and I would see you die. I would see that look on your face again. It never stopped hurting. I think you knew how I felt, seeing my, really _only_, friend die over and over again. But your addiction pulled you back, grasped you with claws dug in too deep to remove. I always tried to help you, to cure you of our sickness, but it never worked.

I think I really started getting worried when you started taking longer to come back. The only thing that comforted me was the knowledge that you would always be back. Then it started taking you two days instead of one. A year later you were taking an entire week. Then two. Then a month. The last time I saw you I pleaded, begged on bended knees for you to stop. Maybe you listened. Maybe you didn't. All I know is that you took your car and drove it over a cliff, whether by accident or on purpose I'll never know. I wonder if you liked the sensation of falling.

It's been a year since your death, and this is the longest one yet. Nothing's really changed. People don't seem to realize that this might actually be the final one. The last death. You were gone half the time anyway. But I still count and keep track of the days. Hoping I'll hear you throw rocks at my window during the night again, telling me you just want to hang out. I wonder if you will again. I wonder where you are now. I wonder if you knew that maybe you wouldn't see me again. I wonder if _you_ cared.

But I don't know the answer to any of that, so I'll just keep waiting. Until you come back.


End file.
